From Rusholme With Love
by Chalcedony Rivers
Summary: Sequel to "The Joker and the Thief". Howard Moon and Vince Noir are running for their lives, which would be easier if every person in the country wasn't out looking for them...
1. Chapter 1

**Note – And we're back! I apologize firstly for taking so damn long to get this up – most of you will probably understand the hardships this time of year brings. I have been writing this since I published the last chapter of TJATT, but it might take a little while for regular updates, so sorry about that. Thanks for your patience, and enjoy. **

**Sunday 20****th**** December 2003**

"Howard, I don't think I can do this…"

"I know, love. I'm sorry. We don't have any choice."

"Yeah. You're right. I know, I'm sorry, I just…"

"Do you want me to do it?"

"Yes please."

Howard sighed, and gazed out at the still body of water that lay ahead of them. It was murky and grey, stained with plastic sheets of oil on the surface. The sky above them was grey, threatening rain. He turned his gaze to look at Vince, shivering on the bank. He'd given his partner his thick corduroy coat, even though it made the little man look like a bisexual Doctor Who, but even so the wind was bitterly cold. Howard's fingers were raw and red from it, and his cheeks stung. Vince's hair was tangled and messy, somewhat deflated; there was a spattering of stubble ringing his neck and the sweet odour of coconut shampoo had been forced to give way to the more human scent of the unwashed over the last week. Howard didn't say anything because he knew that he was almost exactly the same, but it troubled him that Vince hadn't once complained about the appearance that was so important to him. He obviously knew just how unimportant it was, in the face of things. His eyes looked duller in the cold.

"Are you ready?" he asked. Vince bit his lip, and grabbed Howard's hand.

"I don't think I can watch this."

"Ok. That's fine."

With a deep breath, Howard leant in through the window of the mint-blue taxi, and turned the ignition key. He leapt back at the machine rumbled into life, smoke billowing from the exhaust. Vince turned inwards, and pressed his face to Howard's chest, grabbing onto his shirt. The older man placed a comforting hand on the greasy black hair as the car coughed, stuttered, and drove forwards towards the reservoir. Like an otter, it slid into the water with a dramatic splash and then sunk into the dusty depths below. The surface of the resevoir calmed.

Vince turned around and gazed at the water.

"It had to be done, didn't it?" he muttered, more to himself than to the man next to him. "We didn't have a choice. It's not even mine, is it; it's the fucking loan company's. Still…"

"I'm sorry, Vince. It's too much of a risk."

Vince shook his head slowly, and then he turned back around and placed a kiss to Howard's neck. "It's alright. We're alive, ain't we? We're alive and together; s'all 'at matters."

Howard sighed and wished that that were true.

He had Thursday's newspaper in the camping bag that sat alongside Vince's by a tree a couple of feet away, having not been able to get a more updated copy since then. His name was splashed carelessly over every front page in Britain. As per usual, he had opted for a Guardian. He'd read the article so many times he literally knew the first paragraph by heart:

_EVASIVE THIEF IDENTIFIED by Dixon Bainbridge, Crime Correspondent. After a series of bank robberies stretching from the mid-Nineties to the present day, the ringleader of Britain's most elusive crime group has been identified. Howard Moon was found in his house by Whitstable police; he then went on to shoot six officers and escape with an unknown accomplice…_

His memory got a little fuzzy after that. He knew that the article went on to describe how he'd fooled his work colleagues into believing a false name, but the hospital records used to identify his face from the security camera photos had been in his real one; how the other gang members had not at present been identified; how he was on the run and his location was still unknown.

Howard stroked Vince's hair again. "Come on," he said. "We've got to keep moving."

"Where are we meeting this guy, anyway?"

"Somewhere near Macclesfield, I think. It's not too far a walk."

"Yeah, last time you said that we ended up in that muddy field trying to get a phone signal. These shoes…" Vince gestured to his soiled red Chelsea boots, "Are completely ruined."

"Sorry about that."

"It's alright. I got them cheap down Camden Lock. There's always more shoes."

For one thing, Howard was amazed at how little Vince complained about things. Despite the whole heap of pig-shit they'd got themselves, Vince hadn't once whined about his appearance or how far away they were travelling.

Even Howard had to admit, they'd come a hell of a long way from Kent. When they'd got to London six days ago, they'd camped out in a Travel Lodge, just before the shit hit the fan and their names were splashed over the papers. Neither man had slept well that night, eyes shut but their whole bodies keening towards sounds of approaching footsteps and banging doors. Vince had cried in his sleep. They'd driven off at four the next morning, and then Ken had phoned them. _Get out of London, you dumb fucks. Get to Rusholme._ Rusholme, Manchester, where Ken had invested in a second home to use as a hideout. It was difficult, though, to trek up from London to Manchester without being spotted by cameras, so they'd had to drive in short bursts of distance, and that had made the journey stretch out to a week. Most of the time, they'd slept in the car, parked in thick woodland, Vince stretched out on the back seat and Howard sat up in front. They'd eaten little else but sandwiches and coffee bought from service stations at early hours in the morning when the sleepy cashier wouldn't think twice about their mottled appearances.

Vince was slowly patching himself together. He became tense when he slept, presumably plagued by dreams, and sometimes looked distant. But most of the time he was himself, and the sparkle had gradually returned to his eyes until it was the same blinding shine it had always been.

Howard, for one, felt ill when he thought about people using his house as a crime scene.

He hoisted his bag over his shoulder and passed the other one over to Vince.

"C'mon. Let's get moving."

Vince grabbed his hand and pulled himself forward so that he was in step with the Northerner, and then let ago to adjust the bag on his shoulder. The small, dense patch of woodland quickly cut out onto a main road, barren of cars and lined either side by green foliage and empty fields. The two of them stuck to the edge of the road, listening out for the faint rumble of cars.

"So how do we know that we can trust this bloke, anyway?" Vince piped up.

"He's a mate of Ray's, I think," Howard mumbled. "Not that that's much consolation."

"A fellow criminal, I suppose," Vince shrugged. "Not really reassuring, is it?"

"I know…" Howard laughed grimly.

"Ah well….oh, fuck. That better not be rain up ahead!"

Howard looked up at the bruised and ripe clouds that rolled wetly overhead. He wished, for about the millionth time that week, that he was safely at home. He wanted nothing more than to be wrapped up in his duvet with his other half watching the rain cascade down onto a pearly sea, nursing a cup of tea and laughing at the people stupid enough to have gone out without an umbrella. But then he looked at Vince, smiling at the face of every crap turn his life took, and his heart gave his mind a sharp prod.

Vince was smiling, and he giggled. "I should've brought some shampoo, eh? That looks like one hell of a shower!"

Howard laughed as well, just at his lover's eternal optimism. "Might mess up your hair!" he cried, in mock-horror. Vince shook his head, and ran a hand through his hair. He grimaced.

"M'not sure my hair could get any more disgusting than it is now."

"Don't worry; you still look gorgeous."

Vince beamed, radiating light. "Really?"

"Absolutely. Anyway, I'll love you no matter what you look like."

"Even if I wake up tomorrow and I'm covered in massive spots?"

"Even then, little man."

Vince pondered this for a moment. "What if you woke up and I'd turned into a cheese?"

Howard barked out a laugh. "A little more abstract, there. Er…it would be problematic, but I'm sure we could make it work somehow."

"Love you, Howard."

"Sentiment returned, you prize Muppet."

They walked along the road in an amiable silence for a while. Howard hoped they looked a little like hitchhikers, and for one dizzy moment considered the possibility of hitching a ride to Macclesfield. Then he shook his head at his own sheer stupidity, and they carried on walking, along an endless road of nothingness. Vince hummed to himself to break the quiet.

After maybe half a mile or so, Vince pointed up ahead. "Is that it?"

Howard lifted up his head from where he had been watching his own footsteps. Vince's finger was trained like a sniper at a small petrol station up ahead. Howard squinted through his glasses.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Thank fuck; this bag's killing me."

"It wouldn't be killing you if you hadn't insisted in putting all your CDs in there."

"What, I was just going to let them drown with my car? Piss off! What if that had been Charlie Mingle in the glove box?"

"Min_gus_. You'd have let them drown if it was jazz."

"Too right I would. That stuff's an insult to music."

"Jazz is pioneering stuff, Vince. It began the whole of music as we know it today; without jazz, none of your electro-crap would even exist."

"Oh, no you don't. Do you hear Bowie using trumpets?"

"I'd prefer not to hear Bowie at all, thanks very much."

"I'm going to buy you a Bowie album for Christmas. You'll have to like it then."

"I'll bloody shoot myself if you do."

Vince giggled. "That's alright, then I can play it at your funeral. Imagine that: your coffin being carried down the isle and the stereo's going _ground control to Major Tom_…" he paused for a moment, frowned seriously.

"You alright, little man?"

"Yeah, just…" Vince sighed, "Don't die, will ya?"

"I wasn't planning to any time soon."

"Don't think I'd know what to do if you did. I'd probably join you. You'll need someone to keep you company; God knows you're useless on your own."

Howard stopped as a leaf crunched under his foot. He bent slight to peer into Vince's rock-pool eyes. "Hey. What's with the sudden morbidity, eh? That's not our dynamic."

"I'm sorry, Howard. I can't help it. Our lives are so fucked up right now. I can't help thinking about shit," Vince protested.

"We're going to be fine, Vince. We'll get through this, I promise you. And then I'll buy you a fucking huge house next to TopShop, yeah?" Howard smiled.

After a moment, Vince smiled back. "By the sea? Do you get TopShop by the sea?"

"I'll build you one. A seaside TopShop."

Vince took his hand. "Cheers, Howard."

Before long, they had reached the petrol station. The place was deserted, and there was a small junkyard around the back which looked a little like a mechanic service. Howard led Vince through the maze of twisted metal, and frowned at the apparent emptiness of the place.

"Hello?" he called softly. There was a responsive grunt, and a man came around the back of a car, covered in oil. He had tiny, squinty eyes and a matted beard, and he leered at them.

"Er, hi," said Howard. "Nicholas Jones. We're here about the car?"

"Oh, right. Ray's friends," said the man. He spoke with a rusty American accent, and he held out a hand, dripping with petrol. Howard tentatively took it. "Name's Jack."

"Nice to meet you, Jack. Now, about that car?"

"Oh, yeah…" But Jack was staring quite intently at Vince, who had scampered over to an older car model and was lovingly stroking the bonnet.

"Look at this, Nick!" Vince called out. "It's well retro!"

"Purdy young thing you got there," Jack smirked.

"And so God help me if you touch him I will shot your balls off individually," replied Howard, in a conversational tone that was as pleasant as if he were offering tea. "About the car?"

Jack gulped, and pointed over to a Vauxhall that sat unassumingly by the exit. It was a bright, electric blue, but slightly battered. It had the appearance more of a family car than an escape vehicle, and for that reason alone it was perfect. Howard clambered into the front seat, and started the ignition working. It hummed agreeably under his hands.

"It's all in working order for you, Mr. Jones," said Jack. "Ray called me up last week, said I needed to get something ready."

"It's great. How would we get to Manchester from here?"

"You need to take the A523. It's a coupla miles up thataway."

"Thanks. We'll take it," Howard said, clambering out and throwing his bag (and Vince's, where the man had discarded it on the floor) into the boot. Vince came jogging over, and with a cheeky grin at the dealer scrambled into the passenger seat. Jack smiled back nervously. Howard took a couple of notes from the back and handed them over.

"Nice doing business with you, sir," he smiled, and then he got in and drove out of the gates, leaving the perplexed American behind them.

Vince let out a swooping sigh. "Wow. It feels nice to be back in a car again."

"We only dumped yours half an hour ago, you lazy sod!"

Vince settled back into his seat. "Still. How far is it to Manchester?"

"We're just coming into Macclesfield now. Maybe…half an hour?"

"Could you be a little more specific…?" Vince muttered, already rifling through his collection of CDs. Howard glanced at him, and sighed.

"Er…thirty five point nine minutes?" he guessed wildly.

"I hoped you'd say that," the child-man grinned, holding up a nondescript CD.

Howard groaned. "Oh, no, what is it?"

"Don't worry; it's only The Kinks. I feel like modding out a bit."

"That's not even a word."

Vince slipped the CD into the player, and immediately the strains of Waterloo Sunset filled the car with its melancholic drowsiness.

"I reckon we should make a cover of this…" Vince muttered. "As long as I gaze at Whitstable sunset, I am in paradise…"

He yawned, and Howard was suddenly reminded of the lack of sleep they'd both had the night before, when the December cold prevented them from doing so. They'd curled up together, limbs twisted in the back seat of the now-deceased cab, but to no avail. He remembered, at some point in the night when both were pretending to slumber, hearing Vince mutter to himself: "Numan lied. This ain't the only way to bloody live…"

Vince stayed awake, though, remaining subdued and silent. They drove quietly on, through Macclesfield and onto the motorway. Howard's heart didn't stop thumping until they were firmly out of reach of the prying, Orwell-esque speed cameras and safe in the dingy backstreets of Manchester. The car curved around the streets, and he saw Vince's face begin to curl inwards in distaste as the flash glass-and-marble urban areas made way for the grim suburbs: spray-tanned houses and more and more concrete. Howard felt a pang of longing for even London; it was an ugly city but at least it wasn't so monotonous. Here, there seemed to be miles and miles of the same orange-bricked buildings stretching on to eternity. He'd seen it all before, of course, the few times when Manchester had been the safest option for them after a particularly brutal robbery and they'd had to go to Ken's second home, chosen for it's sheer characterless "charm". This time, it all seemed a little more sinister.

Vince had been following the signs with his eyes. "Rusholme…" he muttered quietly to himself. "That's where we're going, isn't it? Rusholme?"

"That's the one."

Vince didn't speak again after that. He'd pulled up his legs onto the seat and was gripping his knees in a tight embrace, gazing mindlessly out of the window. When Howard pulled up outside the house, he stretched out, turned to Howard and smiled at him.

"Is this the place?"

"Yeah. This is the place."

Vince grinned to himself, almost shyly, but Howard wasn't quite sure why.

"What is it?"

"Nothin'. Just déjà vu."

Howard shook his head fondly. He looked in the rear-view mirror to check the road. There was nobody there; it was almost deserted. To his left there was a small park, but there didn't seem to be anybody in there that was noteworthy; just a couple of mothers with small children and one or two people with scruffy little dogs. To his right there was the house. It was still a vulgar neon orange, but compared to some of the other places it looked almost majestic, with its stone-framed windows and three-storey grandeur. But that didn't matter, and Howard still hated it.

He got out the car and slid quickly over to the front door. The doors slammed behind him, and he glanced behind to see Vince looking around at their surroundings in a way that was probably supposed to be casual but just looked conspicuous. The man was still wearing the thick cord coat over his dirty black trousers. The wind whipped up his hair.

There was a large pot of earth by the door, and to any passer by it would have looked like a plant had recently died there. Howard sighed, and dug his hands into the soil, rifling through it until his fingers came across warm metal, and he pulled out the key. With a triumphant smile, he unlocked the door. The two men crept inside, and shut the door behind them.

"Fucking hell…" Vince whispered. "Tensest thirty seconds of my life."

He hugged Howard then; threw his arms around the Northerner's girth and breathed strangled breaths into his jumper. Howard pressed his cheek to Vince's head.

"It's alright, little man," he muttered. "We're safe now, yeah?"

"Yeah," Vince said, pulling away. "Let's get a scenic tour of the house, eh?"

Howard bit his lip, knowing that Vince would only be disappointed. The house was reasonably well-sized, but nowhere near as spacious as he would have liked. Vince tutted when he saw the bathroom and the lack of space for his products, before realising that he'd left a fair few of them back in Kent, and then his face had fallen to his ankles. The house was dusty from disuse, and Howard resolved instantly to clean it. The master bedroom was nice enough, with a view out onto the park outside and a small TV in one corner. Ken had obviously not bestowed the fancy technology or furniture on this house, as most of the items looked either second-hand or relatively cheap. There was no food in the fridge, and the heating switch was stiff from disuse.

"Fuck this. I'm going to get supplies," Vince resolved, after opening yet another empty kitchen cupboard in search of lunch. "Pass me your glasses."

Howard frowned at the odd request, but complied. Vince slipped them on his own face, blinking fiercely at his altered vision, and then rummaged in his pocket, drawing out an elastic band. He grimaced, but used it to tie his hair up in a ponytail.

"What are you doing?" Howard ventured.

"S'a disguise…" Vince muttered, with a grin. "They won't be able to recognise me like this. They'll just think I'm some weird hippy."

"You're brilliant."

Vince reached up and pecked his boyfriend on the lips. "I know."

Then he sauntered off through the doors and off into the wild wilderness of Rusholme.

Howard went upstairs, and emptied their suitcases into the chests of drawers, sighing at the thin piles of material that were the only clothes he and Vince had managed to fit into their bags. They barely took up any space in the chest of drawers. He left the can of hairspray, straighteners and hairdryer by the sink, and dumped the shoes in the hallway. The house was quiet, far too quiet. He put the kettle on and boiled two mugs of tea, wrinkling his nose in distaste when the only mugs he could find in the cupboards were chipped and full of dust. He shot a puff of breath into the base, and leapt back when the fragmentations of dead skin leapt at his command and swirled in a dance around his face. He sighed, and rinsed them into the sink. Then he systematically washed the plates and cutlery, similarly grimy, and wiped the surface of the counter with a rag-cloth he found under the sink next to a bottle of cheap bleach.

Howard glanced up at the clock. It had been half an hour, and the shop was only down the road; they'd passed it on the way. Vince should be back by now.

He took a deep breath to calm himself down, but the seed of doubt had been planted long since in his mind and now it had exploded into bloom. What if, heaven forbid, Vince had been caught by the police - his face was visually memorable, and his camouflage had hardly been elaborate. What would he say to them? What if he hadn't been caught, but had decided that he'd had enough and was turning himself in? No. Howard had more faith in Vince than that. But, still, he was worried.

He was about to go out and look for Vince himself when the doorbell rang. Of course, he was standing on the doorstep, grinning and holding up a plastic bag like it was the Olympic torch. As soon as he saw Howard's face, his smile plummeted.

"Whassa matter?"

Howard swallowed, and shut the door behind him, locking it. He was embarrassed now; ashamed of his mind. "No, nothing. My imagination was running wild. Just, you'd been gone a while. What took you so long?"

Vince's face took on an expression of sudden realisation and regret. "Oh, shit. Have you been sitting here worrying about me?"

Howard coughed, mortified. "No, no! Not in the slightest. I just…"

"You're sweet," Vince smiled. "Sorry I took a while. I got a bit confused and forgot the way back. My memory for direction failed me."

"It's fine. I've made some tea, if you want some. There's no sugar, though."

Vince sighed; shook his hair out of the ponytail and gave the glasses back to Howard. "Genius. I'll take it up with me. I just really, _really_ need a bath right now."

"I know how you feel."

"Do you wanna go first, Howard? 'Coz, no offence, but your hair won't take so long, will it?"

Howard smiled, relieved to be back in familiar territory. "What's wrong with my hair?"

"Nothing's wrong with your hair. It's just a bit thin, that's all. It's like brown smoke." Vince spoke the words with soft acquaintance.

"Always having a poke at my hair, aren't you…" Howard sighed. "No. You go ahead."

"Cheers, love."

* * *

"What do you make of it?"

Howard sighed, rested his head in his hands. "It's an absolute disaster."

He picked up the paper again, and scanned it hungrily:

_KIDNAP TRUTHS REVEALED by Dixon Bainbridge, Crime Correspondent. The disappearance of London Taxi driver Vince Noir is now thought to be connected to the series of bank robberies fronted by fugitive Howard Moon, police say. Suspicions were raised after Leroy Royle, 31, recognised his friend and flatmate from the photographic evidence. Police now believe that Noir was kidnapped on the events of October 3__rd__ when Moon and his unnamed accomplices fled a London NatWest with £3,000,000 of taxpayer's money, with Noir's car used as the getaway vehicle. London police are currently investigating the disappearance, with which no connection was made before now. If anybody has any information about the whereabouts of either Moon or Noir, please contact the Metropolitan Police hotline…_

Howard threw the paper down angrily onto the coffee table, Vince regarding him with sympathetic but still slightly wary eyes. He carefully rested a comforting hand on Howard's back. The older man stared at the floor.

"Fucking hell…when did this all go to shit? I was done; I was fucking _done_ with it all!"

"I know, Howard, I know. But, look, it'll all blow over soon."

"But what if it doesn't, Vince?" Howard groaned, his pessimism returning. "If I get caught, I'll be done for murder, manslaughter, about fifty counts of armed robbery, theft and now kidnap."

Vince was quiet for a moment, and Howard sighed deeply.

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this mess."

"Howard, c'mon, it's not like I went kicking and screaming, yeah?"

There was a pause.

"Well, maybe at some of the later points, eh?"

Howard couldn't help but laugh. "You tart."

"Whatever. Truth is, Howard, it might not have been my first choice for a day at the time, but I wouldn't change a thing. I've had more fun in the last few months that I've ever had in my life, even when we were running from the police I fucking loved it."

He paused, and took a deep breath.

"Which is why I should probably go…"

The words stopped in midair, as if horrified that they'd even been uttered. They waited there tensely, and they grew so large that the room became suffocating. Howard turned his head and looked right into Vince's eyes.

"What?" Howard croaked, hoping that Vince would go "aah, got'cha" at any moment.

"Look, I know we just got here and it all sounds crazy," said the mod, "But I've been thinking about it since I saw that newspaper article. I don't want to leave, but I know it ain't safe for us to stay together, right? My whole family reckon I've been kidnapped, and I know there's no denying that the bloke in the photo is me, but…if I went back to London, and went to the police, I could defend you, yeah? I could say that I went with you willingly, and that you shot those guys outta self-defence, and I'll say…I'll say that you let me out at a roadside somewhere and so I came back, or _something_. But I can't sit here and do bugger all, Howard. I can be an asset, I swear."

For a brief moment, Howard was reminded of a moment in a pub on a shoreline back in October. _Just gimme a chance. I know I could do it…_

His head was swimming. "No, Vince…"

"It makes sense, Howard," Vince said reasonably. "I wish it didn't, but it does. I mean, otherwise we're just gonna be stuck 'ere, waiting for something to happen, but I can go back to London and make something happen."

Vince's hair was dribbling onto his bomber jacket, and Howard thought he could see the beginnings of brown roots peering through the forest of black.

"What if you slip up?"

It took him a moment to realise he'd said it out loud, but Vince didn't look hurt. Rather, he offered a crooked smile.

"Have a little more faith in me that _that_, small-eyes. I'm an alright actor."

"Are you?"

Vince's shoulders slumped. "Not really, no…" Then he grinned, "See, that was me acting."

Despite himself, Howard laughed. "When were you thinking of going?"

Vince shifted on the seat. "Not right away. Tomorrow morning?"

A warm, clean hand found his; delicate fingers traced patterns on the flat plains of his skin and over the mountains of his protruding veins. Howard grasped it, and briefly thought back to a time where the mere thought of someone touching him made his skin crawl. Even now, he flinched whenever Ray or Ken got too close for comfort. That had all started at his first, botched attempt at a robbery, when sweaty hands had pulled at the bullet lodged in his chest and he had lain on the floor and shivered at the smell of blood. Somehow, it was different with Vince.

They watched TV, not really paying attention, and went to bed. Howard awoke the next morning, encased in cold, clammy (and slightly sticky) sheets, to see Vince scuttling around the room like an anxious squirrel, quietly packing his things into the bag again. Unlike the older man, Vince was an untidy packer; he scrunched things up and shoved them into the depths of the rucksack like crisp packets in a dustbin. He glanced over to the bed, and smiled fondly at Howard.

"You should have your hair like that normally. S'all rugged and sexy."

Howard ran a hand over his scalp and Vince grimaced: "Nah. You're ruined it now."

"What time is it?"

"No idea," Vince shrugged. "Probably about nine."

"Are you going already?"

Vince bit his lip. His hair caught the light from the window and shimmered. "I reckon so. I don't know how long it'll take me to get back."

"I don't want you to go…" Howard muttered. He was aware of how petulant he sounded, but didn't really care. Vince laughed and pushed his Bowie t-shirt into the bag.

"Don't wanna go either, love._ You_ won't be able to cope without me."

Sensing an invitation for banter, Howard replied: "I was doing a fine job before."

"Yeah, but that was before," Vince dismissively muttered.

"Before what?"

"Before you realised I was a gifted child! With genius hair to boot."

"Whatever."

Vince stepped over and ruffled his hair, much to Howard's dismay. The kid laughed.

"I'm gonna fucking miss you, you jazzy freak."

Howard didn't reply.

When he kissed Vince goodbye a short while later, the man's lips tasted like cold tea and toothpaste, and the smell of shampoo and something unnameable clung to Howard's clothes like cigarette smoke. Vince clung to him for a moment like a monkey.

"I'll be back before you have a chance to miss me. I promise."

"Are you going to be alright?"

Vince shrugged. "M'gonna have to be, ain't I? Anyway, you shouldn't have given me your number, coz I'm going to be calling you twenty-four-seven, even if it's just to ask you stupid questions like: are the black bits in bananas tarantula eggs."

Howard chucked lowly.

"I mean it. I'll come back. They won't be able to keep me away. I'll sort it all out, I swear."

And then he picked up his bags and opened the door. The cold air flooded the hallway. Vince gazed out for a moment onto the street, and then he turned and smiled at Howard, and Howard suddenly wanted to pull him back shut the door again so that the world could never hurt him.

"Bye, Howard."

Vince walked across to the bright blue Vauxhall, his Chelsea boots clacking against the pavement. He opened the door, and got in. He waved once, and then started the car. He reversed, and then drove off down the road, turned the corner and vanished from view.

Howard took a deep breath, and shut the door again.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Note – Once again, my apologies for infrequent updates and thanks to all you gorgeous readers. You cheeky vixens; what would I do without you? Forgot to mention in the last chapter; title is taken, in traditional fashion, from a Mint Royale song.**_

**Monday 21****st**** December 2003**

It had been five minutes since Vince had arrived back at the block of flats where he used to live, and he still hadn't got out of the car. His CD had stopped playing a short while ago, and there was silence. He'd talked aloud to himself the whole way; getting his stories straight. He had been surprised by how little time the journey had taken when you took the main motorways, considering it had taken them a week to get to Manchester in the first place. The last time he had been here, there had been an unconscious Howard in the back seat. It had been a bit of a struggle to drag the older man into the flat without arousing suspicion – Vince remembered thanking Bowie, Jagger and Numan that he only lived on the second floor and that nobody had been around to witness him. The memories of that particular day sent shudders racing up his spine.

With a sudden act of bravado, Vince squared his shoulders and got out of the car. It was cold; his spine tensed against it. He pulled his battered bomber jacket close around him and wondered why he hadn't thought to wear a thicker top. It was nearly Christmas, after all.

He grabbed his bag, shut the car door and walked slowly towards the block of flats, each step quietly loud as his shoes clacked against the pavement. A cool breeze sent dry brown leaves careening around his ankles, and he wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. The street was deserted. A dead pigeon lay by the side of the road, its chest open and rotting. Vince tried not to look at it as bile rose in his throat, and he determinedly swallowed it down. He didn't realise he'd reached the door until his nose was almost touching the weathered metal. Slowly, he slipped his hands into the pocket of his jeans, and withdrew a small set of keys. They jingled innocently in his hands as he found the right one, and unlocked the door.

He ran up the concrete stairs two at a time, misbalanced with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket to save them from chafing with the cold. It was slightly warmer inside the stairwell that ran up the side of the building, but his breath still shuddered out in cottony rags. The bag bumped against his shoulder blades with little sighs. Vince paused for a moment to gaze through one of the slim windows at his car on the pavement two floors below, and he sharply blinked when his brain unhelpfully supplied him with images of dragging a corpse-like Howard up the stairs. Vince shook his head, and the memories dispersed. He sighed and turned, and was faced with his own front door. He took a deep breath, fondling the metal in his pocket, and then he withdrew the keys and unlocked his flat.

The door swung open easily, and it took Vince a moment to recognise the childish shades of his former abode. Very little had changed since he had been here last, save for a small plastic Christmas tree in the corner. He shut the door quietly behind him. The flat seemed to be empty.

"Hello?" Vince called softly, and was greeted only with humming silence. The flat seemed somehow smaller than it had done last time he'd been there. Then it had felt like an expanse of the whole world stretching out beneath his feet. He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. The routine seemed strange – he remembered where everything was and did it automatically, but he felt like he was in a guest house, not his own.

Then he went and looked around the living room, breathing in the familiar air of dust and oil paint; trying to gage what had changed in the seventy-nine days of his absence (and was that really it? It felt like a lifetime). The sofa bed where he used to sleep had been cleared of the sheets and pillows, and was folded up neatly against the wall. The paintings looked down at him with sympathetic eyes. Vince shook his head, and drank his tea.

The fact that he'd spent almost two months with cocky gobshite bank robbers who kept banging on about the virtues of planning had, apparently, not helped. If he had thought about it properly, Vince realised, then he would have realised that Leroy wouldn't be back until at least five, not on a Monday anyway. It was twenty past three now, so he had bloody ages to wait. Vince had never particularly liked being on his own, didn't like silence, and now he really wished he had somebody to talk to. Hell, he even wished that Ken or Ray would come barging in just to irritate him with their banter and bickering. What he really wished, though, was that Howard was there to hold him and tell him everything was going to be alright.

He could call Howard. His partner would hardly be doing anything save for catching up on two months of restricted jazz sessions. He had Howard's mobile number stored in his phone, his new phone; the one he'd bought himself after being in Kent for two weeks, having left his old one back home on the day of the robbery. That was yet another problem in itself.

Vince gave the bag of his belongings a bored kick and sat on the sofa. Then he got his phone out and punched in _Dont call me on this no might be dangerous miss u like fuck already xx_.

After a while, his phone buzzed into life: _Alright. I miss you too. House feels empty. X_

He smiled. Trust Howard to text in proper English.

_Love u small eyes xx._

Howard didn't respond after that, for any number of reasons. Vince didn't delete the text from his inbox, but buried the phone at the bottom of the bag where Leroy couldn't find it. He located the old one – the forgotten one – relatively quickly from where it was sitting atop the fridge. It was still switched on, and Vince guessed his flatmate was monitoring it in case of calls. He pocketed it, not wanting to look at anything his family might have sent. Then he made more tea.

He flicked through Leroy's CDs, smiling fondly at the titles that he recognised, some he didn't even realised he'd missed. Some of them were his; those that had been rejected from his daily preferences that October morning and he had forgotten to replace. He lovingly clasped a Human League disc and his heart swelled with nostalgia. He unpacked the CDs from his bag and integrated them into the pile that stood by the stereo; covers open and discs in the wrong boxes as a sign of the haphazard system of overeager listeners. He didn't know what to do with the rest of his clothes and so left them in the rucksack, but grinned when he went into the bathroom and found his trusty old Nicky Clarkes, unplugged next to the shower along with an assortment of products. He ran his hand over his dusty designated shelf above the sink, picking up and inspecting every eyeliner pencil, every tube of glitter used for the more flamboyant nights out. At that thought, his heart shocked like it had been electrocuted, and he dashed into the living room to the chest of drawers by the sofa bed, where lay his best outfits. The drawer stuck, like it hadn't been opened a long time. Vince fondled the feathers and the fabrics a while before shutting it again.

When he glanced up, it was only four o clock. He sighed impatiently, and threw himself down on the sofa. It bounced a little under his weight. He'd occupied himself in situations like this for months when he was still training, but then there hadn't been such an electric sense of anticipation. He'd spent most of his time watching TV, bored shitless but waiting for that moment when Howard would walk through the door and his life would begin again. His heart would pound for that moment. Vince had always known that Howard was a good-looking bloke, but his profession and the fact that he seemed more than keen to stick a gun down Vince's throat seemed more than enough to put him off. It was only after a few weeks of being with Howard, the real Howard, _his_ Howard, that he realised just how bloody gorgeous the older man was. The amazing thing was the Northerner didn't even seem to realise it.

Vince was midway through this tangent of thought when the door began to rattle. Vince leapt up from the seat and wet his lips as his heart begun to thud with dread. There was a pause as the person in the hallway become conscious that the door had already been unlocked. Vince shifted on his feet, suddenly desperate to find the right position. Was he too casual? He folded his arms tight across his chest, pressing them into his abdomen, crouched over. He waited.

The door clicked open, and swung noiselessly on its hinges to reveal the young man stood there. He was a couple of months older than Vince, but looked much younger with his slightly babyish face and messy sandy hair. He was wearing a Nirvana t-shirt and loose-fitting jeans; his sense of style more comfortable but less prominent that Vince's own. Vince's throat dried as he took in his flatmate for the first time in months. He smiled awkwardly.

"Alright?"

Leroy's keys dropped to the floor with a clatter. Pale eyes widened to an almost comical size. He raised a trembling finger and pointed it at Vince.

"Y-you…it's really…but how can…_you_?"

Vince raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Yeah, alright, bit of a shock, I know-"

"_Vince_?" Leroy shrieked, shutting the door. "Holy fucking shit!"

And then he threw himself across the room, crashing against Vince with a force that almost sent the slighter man reeling backwards. He stumbled as firm hands gripped his shoulder with a ferocious intensity; fingers grabbed greedily at his shirt as he was engulfed in a tight embrace. Leroy pulled away and gazed into Vince's eyes, his own swimming.

"You're alright," he said quietly, his voice full of wonder. "You're really alright."

Vince smiled sadly. "Yeah. S'me."

Leroy let go of his shoulder and shook his head. "Where the fuck have you been, mate? It's like, you just vanished and then I saw you in those photos last week…" He sighed deeply, indulgently. "I mean, thank fuck you're alive, we were all so worried about you. Where've you been?"

Vince ran a hand through his hair. "It's quite a long story, Lee."

Leroy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, three bloody months, Vince. But…Christy! I need to call the police, I mean; you've just turned up outta the blue…"

The young man swayed on his feet slightly. Vince took a deep, shuddering breath that racked his body.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Leroy muttered disbelievingly. "I mean…fuck. What do I say? Do you…want anything to drink? A beer?"

"_Rule one. No drink."_

"I'll just have some water, thanks," Vince quickly replied to block the memories that swirled in his head. Leroy nodded, and vanished into the kitchen. He returned quickly, handing Vince a glass with one hand and downing his beer, sucking it down with the same desperation with which a drowning man sucks water into his lungs. Vince just held the water awkwardly. His flatmate flopped down on to sofa, and stared at him.

"What happened to you, Vince?"

Vince grimaced, hoping the twinge in his chest that creased his face would be misinterpreted as reluctance. "Do we really have to do this now? Give me a break; I've only just got back."

"Exactly!" Leroy cried. "We don't hear from you for months and you expect me not to need to know where you've been?"

Vince sighed, and began chewing on his thumbnail. Leroy frowned at him.

"_Vince_!"

"Jesus, Leroy, I didn't expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition!" Vince retaliated dryly.

Leroy's brows furrowed. "Since when do you watch Monty Python?"

Since the BBC had played it when he was waiting for Howard to come back from work, that's when. Vince shrugged nonchalantly. "I've seen it."

Leroy shook his and lent forward. "Vince – what happened to you?" he repeated firmly.

Vince took a deep breath, and looked deep into his friend's eyes. They were inquisitive but impatient, and Vince knew that, had their situations been reversed, he would have acted exactly the same. He blinked heavily, letting his eyelids linger shut for a moment.

"They picked me up in Spitalfields," he began slowly. "I was dropping someone off for the Sunday market and got flagged down. There were three of them…" he paused, suddenly aware that he sounded like he was in a confession, or (perhaps more aptly) an interview. "First thoughts were that they looked horrendous. Black suits, all of them, imagine that!" He laughed unconvincingly. "They didn't talk much. Asked me to go to a bank in Central London and wait for them in the car park. They told me that if anyone asked, I should pretend I was their chauffeur. I guess they picked up that I ain't the shiniest coat on the rack. I didn't really clock that they were…" He paused to spit out the words, "Bank robbers until the alarms started going off and they ran back out; jumped in the car. Then this one guy…he took out this gun and held it to my head and told me to drive. I thought I was gonna die."

Vince folded his arms tightly around himself and bit his lip, hoping he was convincing enough as the victim. The sooner this was all over, the sooner he could just go home.

"They didn't know what they were doing," he continued. "Their plan went to fuck and they'd kidnapped a bloody taxi driver to boot. The one who pointed a gun at me, he gave me directions to his house and so I went, y'know; what else was I meant to do? I reckoned they were going to shoot me but the guy locked me up in his attic room. I tried to get away, but didn't manage it. The other two took my car and left, and I was left alone with this man-"

"Howard Moon," Leroy broke in. He spoke Howard's name like it was an insult of utmost contempt, and it took a lot of Vince's self-restraint to stop him punching his flatmate's face in.

"Yeah. Howard," he said, knowing full well that this was when things were going to get trickier. Still, he was prepared. "He didn't really know what to do with me. Some days he tried to keep me inside, some days he didn't mind if I left the house. He got a bit funny if I tried to use the phone and he wouldn't tell me where I was, but he didn't seem to mind if I left either."

"So why didn't you?" Leroy interrupted, his face folded neatly in half by the ironed creases in his forehead. Vince smiled agitatedly, and stuffed his hands violently into his pockets.

"Who'd have believed me, Lee?" he said quietly. "It was some peaceful place by the sea full of old people. Who'd have believed a prancing Camden androgyne who told them he'd been kidnapped, eh? Fucking no one. I didn't have a car, I didn't know where I was, for all I knew if I left Howard's mates would have just come and shot me anyway." He crashed down heavily onto a conveniently-placed chair and ran a hand through his hair. The world, he thought, had missed out on a perfectly good actor when he decided to dedicate his life to painting.

"So I went along with it," he continued. "I was alive, and Howard didn't want me to die, so I thought that if I stuck it out he might take me back home. And the longer I was there…the more I got to like him. He was just a nice, normal human being and he never even wanted to rob banks. Genius cook too, yeah. We got on pretty epically."

Vince sighed, and looked down at his hands. "But then his mates came back. He told me to stay upstairs because he didn't want me to get hurt, imagine that. There was this massive row, and in the end he said that they wanted me to go on a raid with them. So I got bundled into this car – my bloody car, would you believe – and we got driven to this bank in London. I never knew their names, never saw their faces…" He trailed off, and dared a quick glance at his best friend's face. Leroy's expression was a mixture of confusion and enrapture. Vince sighed deeply. He hated putting the blame on Ken and Ray for this, but he wasn't using their names, so if anyone asked they were just two nameless, faceless thugs. That suited everybody, he thought.

"Well, the job went wrong…" he laughed darkly. "As you know. As I reckon everybody in bloody Britain knows, by now. We escaped, got out pretty fast. I told Howard to take me home, and we came back here, but then he said that my fingerprints would be everywhere so…I didn't know what to do, Leroy. So I went back. For a while, it was ok. But then some police turned up and accused me of doing the job, and he tried to shoot me – I thought, fuck it, this is the end of my life, y'know? Bye-bye, Vincey, now fuck off and don't come back. But then there was this…this _bang_ and the guy was dead and Howard had shot him for me. He'd never shot anybody before but he'd killed this random bloke because of me. Then his mates came back and shot these other guys…I dunno, it was a bit of a blur to be honest. We got the fuck out of there, anyway. I don't know where he was going – I heard a bit of what they were saying over the phone and it sounded like they wanted him to get out of the country. In the end, I woke up one morning and he'd just gone. So I drove back here. And here I am."

The flat fell silent.

Vince's heart was pounding so feverishly that it had begun to affect his whole body. He was breathing heavily, like he'd just run a marathon, and he felt some small pearls of sweat begin to gather on his forehead, thankfully hidden by the mop of hair. He didn't want to look at Leroy.

"Fucking hell, Vince…"

"Yeah," Vince replied, desperately swallowing to quench the dryness in his throat.

"I had no idea, I'm so sorry."

"Well, now you know, right?"

"Yeah."

Leroy brushed the hair from his eyes awkwardly and sipped at his beer again. A cheeky draught ran through the flat and Vince inwardly shivered.

"I'm just glad you're back, mate."

Vince cast his eyes around the living room. "Yeah. Me too."

Leroy stood up and brushed imaginary dirt from his faded jeans. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke his voice was so parched Vince half expected sand to begin falling from his lips; clogged between his teeth. "You should probably phone your mum."

Vince felt his face sag, and he shook his head slowly. "Oh, no. Oh no, Leroy!" he sighed.

But his friend had already picked up the landline phone from its perch atop the messy table and was holding it out to his face. His face was stern. "Yeah. You've got to. Just tell her you're ok. She's been sick with worry, y'know. Been going out of her mind. Your brother's been going round putting up missing posters of you. I mean none of us even knew if you were alive!"

"You do it," Vince pleaded. "Please. I can't."

Leroy gazed levelly at him for a moment. Then he nodded and sharply turned away, punching the number into the phone as he did so. There was a sharp buzz as it rang.

"Oh, hi, Diane. It's Leroy. Yeah. Look, I've got some news…" He paused and looked at his flatmate as he spoke. Vince gripped the edge of the chair and gazed down at his shoes. "He's back – Vince. He's come back. He's right here. Yeah, he's fine. I know. Yeah, me too. Actually, he's just having a little sleepy at the moment. He looked well tired. Yeah, sorry about that. No, no…he looks fine. He doesn't seem hurt. Well, I dunno…yeah. Sure. No, no, there's no need for that. Well, alright, thanks. Yeah, I'll tell him. Cool. Alright, bye."

He hung up. Vince shot him a smile of gratitude. "Thanks."

Leroy sighed indulgently. "You owe me one."

"Yeah."

There was a pause of uncomfortable awkwardness, and Vince had a vague notion that he might put some music on to hoover out the tension.

"So what's been going on with you?"

Leroy shrugged. "Not much. They replaced you at the station. Gave your customers to some jumped-up little ponce, Lance..." Suddenly, Leroy blinked, hard. "You've dyed your hair."

Automatically, Vince ran a hand over the back of his skull, and the pulse in his veins began to rise as the meaning of the words ultimately sunk in. His hair had been this shade of vibrant black for so long he'd forgotten about the shift in his foundations.

"Oh, yeah," he laughed unconvincingly. "I had it done."

Leroy shook his head. "You had it done?" he said, his voice tinged with disbelief. "You had it done? So you mean," now his voice shook with all the suppressed rage of the last three months, "That we've been sitting here, thinking you were dead, and you just had your hair done?"

"Don't be angry with me, Leroy."

"Why not? I didn't know whether you were dead in a ditch or if you'd just buggered off on some spontaneous holiday or what. That hurt, Vince!"

"I think if anyone's got a right to be pissed it's me," Vince growled. "I was the one held hostage for three months!"

"Oh, right. Well, you must have had a tough time if you were able to go out and get your hair done."

"Howard said I should have it done," Vince lied. "To avoid suspicion."

Leroy's mouth fell open. Vince momentarily wondered how his friend would react, had somebody pushed a gun into it.

"And you _agreed_?"

"Yeah, I did!" Vince could feel himself getting more exasperated by the minute. "Because, believe it or not, I trusted him."

"You trusted him?" Leroy cut in.

"Yeah!"

"You trusted the man who kept you away from your family and threatened to shoot you?"

"But he didn't, Leroy. He didn't shoot me."

Leroy shut his eyes and wiped the hair away from his forehead. He looked like he wanted to curl up deep into his bed and sleep for a week. "Right. I get it," he muttered after a moment, and his voice was thick and sludgy. He sat down on the sofa, and leant towards Vince, clasping his hands together as if in prayer.

"Listen, Vince," he said quietly. "You've gone wrong. Just because Moon didn't shoot you, it doesn't make him a good person. It just meant he didn't want to get his hands dirty."

Vince was already shaking his head. "No. No, that ain't true."

"There's a name for it. S'called Stockholm Syndrome."

"Is that right? Well, you weren't there, Vince muttered bitterly. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Leroy smiled sympathetically, as if Vince was an idiot. Vince didn't like being called an idiot any more than he liked being called ugly, and he'd punched Ray for calling him ugly.

"Don't look at me like that. You don't."

Leroy stood up, and passed Vince the phone again. "You should call your mum."

Then he exited stage left into his room, and shut the door. Vince gazed at the phone in his hands for a second before throwing it onto the floor. His heart was burning the inside of his chest. Then he picked it up again and just sat, looking at it.

Then he dialled his mother's number.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Note – Writer's block + exams + no free time = Chalcy's apologies for bad updating.**_

**Friday**** 25****th**** December 2003**

All in all, Vince reflected, it hadn't been a completely atrocious day, only mildly excruciating. His whole family were looking at him in peculiar ways: either as if he were about to faint or as if he might overturn the dining table, and they were treading on proverbial eggshells whenever they tried to engage him in conversation. His mum couldn't seem to stop touching him; every five minutes he felt a hand grab at his shoulder as if in reassurance that he was still there, but then she'd always snatch it away again. Mike kept on looking at him like he'd dropped from the sky. In all fairness, Vince was beginning to feel that way as well.

The past couple of days had been strange, to say the least. He'd managed to quickly fall into a warped timetable: pretend to sleep in until Leroy went to work, go out wander around Camden, skip lunch, go home, watch TV or listen to records and go to bed early, trying not to dream too vividly. The advantage of Leroy's taxi job was that he'd still been working until 5 on Christmas Eve, so it had been easy to avoid him after his boss forced him back after only one day off. He didn't like avoiding his best friend, but conversation was stilted and awkward between them. Leroy didn't know about his daytime excursions to his old haunts; just assumed Vince was staying in all day. There were too many secrets for Vince's liking, but that was just how it was.

Still, he had to hand it to Leroy for acting as a connection between him and the outside world. Save for one meeting with his mother, Vince hadn't seen any of his friends or family until today. He'd had to have one interview with the police, enough time to tell them that he thought Howard had gone to Cornwall, maybe, but they'd been too easily ready to believe the victim's story. A better picture of him had brightened up the front pages of papers for a few days, so much so that he'd been recognised by a young girl and eventually took to wearing his sunglasses out.

After lunch, he'd sunk in the massive purple velvet armchair in the front room of his parent's flat, looking out of the large window down at the evening sprawl of Camden below him. Mike was perched on a stool, rolling a cigarette and looking for all the world like he wanted to dive after his brother's gaze. Vince's eyes flickered over Mike's petite frame.

"You don't smoke," he stated.

Mike frowned, and then looked at the roll-up in his hand like he'd never seen it before. "Oh, yeah. I don't, do I?" He lit it anyway and took a drag.

"Not in the house, Mike!" came Diane's call from the kitchen. The young man continued regardless, as if he hadn't even heard her. The thin wisp of smoke trailed lazily upwards, circumnavigating his black trilby. Mike scratched his nose and regarded Vince.

"It's nice to have you back, bro," he lisped.

"Nice to _be_ back," Vince replied calmly, trying not to look at his sibling.

"Don't suppose you want to talk about anything, right?"

"Fuck, no."

"Thank God for that. Don't think I could handle it," Mike said with a small, awkward laugh. Vince turned his head to look at him. His brother was balancing the cigarette on the edge of the stool with one hand, and playing with a loose thread on his red t-shirt with the other. He'd grown a moustache, a little less prominent than Howard's own but darker where it grazed his upper lip.

There were no words. In that silent, unspoken collision of thought Vince knew that Mike had had his life on hold since he'd gone. His brother had always been a bit of a pessimist, and he'd been mentally preparing himself for the very real fact that Vince was probably never coming back. Now he had, he didn't quite know what to do with himself. Mike continued to smoke silently, occasionally sprinkling the ash into a glass which still held the cool, sickly residues of Tescos-own-brand mulled wine. Then he screwed up the butt with his fingers, stood up, and threw the contents of the glass out of the window. He sat back down again, and looked lost.

Vince refused pudding, when it was offered to him. He wasn't sure whether it was the sickly smell of brandy or the general brownness of it all, but the sight of it made him feel nauseous. Diane looked down at him, and her face puckered.

"Are you sure, love? You look very…I mean, you've lost weight."

Vince had actually put on a stone since meeting Howard; he'd checked on the scales in the bathroom. Maybe it was a requirement that kidnapped people had to look skinny in the mind's eye of their families, even if that wasn't really true.

"Nah, m'fine."

His mum just tutted, and handed the portion to his dad, who ate as if he didn't even taste what was in his mouth. Vince had always been proud of his father, who he always thought looked like an older Ronnie Wood, but now he thought Brian looked almost gaunt.

Presents hadn't been exchanged, not even discussed. Vince had managed to corner his mum in the kitchen before lunch to apologise. She'd grabbed her face and looked deep into it, tracing it with her eyes. Vince had felt distinctly uncomfortable.

"You're back. I didn't need anything else, love," she had said.

Now that had felt like a kick to the stomach. Vince had felt so, so guilty then; awful that he'd left his family behind in the first place to wallow in his own delusions of – what? Excitement? And then, of course, he felt bad for knowing that he was going to have to leave them again. He knew he could have gone back to them, that bleak morning by a motorway Little Chef. But at the time he couldn't have been anywhere else but near the Northern bank robber who, for the first time in his life, hadn't treated him like he was special. Back then, to Howard at least, he'd just been a cocky, jumped-up little git who had found his way into his attic and hadn't left. Howard was down-to-earth and liked jazz and read more crime fiction than was good for him. He scared Vince. Turned out there was a world outside of the Camden elite, and it was fucking massive. There was no way Vince could go back; he'd known that the moment he stepped out of his car and found himself outside that house by the sea.

His car was rusting at the bottom of a reservoir now. _C'est la vie_ – what bollocks.

"You alright, Vince?"

He turned to his mum, who was gazing at him with a pitying grimace that made her look like she was in pain.

"Yeah, m'alright," he muttered, and ruffled his hair.

"Being very quiet, love."

"I'm fine, Mum. Really."

"Alright, sweetheart," Diane sighed. "How's Leroy?"

"He's fine."

"Are you two going out tonight?"

Vince shook his head a little more vehemently than he meant to, and Diane frowned. "Oh. I thought he said there was a Christmas do at the Velvet Onion."

"There is."

"But you said-"

"Mum, I'm not going," Vince protested.

"You're not?"

"No."

"Your friends will be worried about you, Vince."

"I've only been back a week," Vince said with more vehemence than he meant to. Diane pressed her lips together and sighed through her nose. "I know I need to get to my life, Mum, but…not yet, yeah?"

Diane didn't say anything else; just leant back into her chair and absent-mindedly watched Mike absent-mindedly rolling another cigarette.

The silence wormed its way into Vince's brain and expanded, filling his mind with tension. When he could stand it no longer he stood with a sigh and said: "Right, best be off then."

Brian looked with distant curiosity at his son, as if he were viewing Vince through a cage at a zoo. "Where are you going?"

Vince shrugged on his winter coat: army-green with a fur-rimmed hood. "Home."

"Oh. Are you sure, love?" Diane asked.

"Yeah, I wanna get an early night," Vince said indifferently. He bent down and pressed a powdery kiss to his mother's cheek, and squeezed his dad's shoulder. Mike didn't even seem to have realised that he'd got up, so he let him be and opened the front door.

"Bye, all!" Vince called, and shut the door to the chorus of thin farewells. He breathed a sigh of relief, and felt the tension leave his body particle by particle. "Christy…"

He skipped down the stairs two at a time, and burst out into the cold Camden air. The night was growing, cavernous, and Vince missed being able to see the stars. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked quickly, his feet barely skimming the pavement. The streets were remarkably empty and quiet, with only the occasional unseasonal dog-walker to bring his mind back to Earth. They were doused in ethereal orange streetlamps; the clumsy beams of light illuminated Vince's pathway. He turned the corner, locating his flat in the darker side-street. A dog was pissing up against a door, its twin and their owner watching it with blasé interest. A pigeon was startled by a plastic bag, and dashed up into the safety of the sky with a rush of feathers.

Vince fished in his coat pocket for his key, and pulled it out with a jingle.

"Hey!"

He started at the sudden voice, and turned around. The street was empty save for him and the dog-owner, who was looking at him with a sudden intensity. Vince shivered, and quickly unlocked the door, eager to get inside.

"Jesus, Noir, it's only me!"

Vince stopped short at the voice. He recognised it, somehow. The shadowed man stepped forward until he was lit up by the thin glow of white light from inside the flat hallway. He was wearing a thick trenchcoat, a ridiculous-looking panama and a pair of glasses. He smiled.

Vince stepped towards him, and squinted. "Ken?"

The Irishman grinned at him. "Y'alright, Vince?"

The dogs were Alsatians, young ones. One of them squirmed at its lead, keening towards Vince. He bent down and scratched its ears.

"She likes you," Ken said, sounding surprised. "That's Dee, and this is Sue."

"Alright, Dee," Vince muttered as the dog panted and nuzzled his hand. He stood up, and thrust his hands back in his pockets. "What're you doing here?"

"What, can't an old friend even stop to say Happy Christmas?" Ken grinned. "Finding you was piss-easy, mate. How are ya?"

Vince shrugged. "Been better."

"Howard misses you," the bank-robber said, looking directly into Vince's eyes. "We went to see him yesterday. He's moping around the house with a face like a sore arse. We told him to get out of the country for a bit, but you know him. Wouldn't hear of it. Kept saying, but what about Vince? Vince won't know where I am. You've turned him soft, Noir."

Vince chuckled slightly, feeling tears well up in his eyes. Oh, Howard…

"How is it on your end o' things?"

"S'a fucking nightmare," Vince admitted. "Everyone's treating me like some fucking Christmas toy. I wish this was all over."

"How's it going with the police?" Ken asked casually, ignoring the sentiment.

"Alright. They believe everything I say. I think they're just in awe of my hair." Vince laughed half-heartedly. Ken didn't.

"Listen, Vince, I don't want to say this, but you shouldn't have come back here."

"What?"

"I understand why you did it, and sure, you had the best intentions, but you can't slip up, Vince. I'm serious. Do that, and all our heads are on the line. Yours. Mine. Howard's."

Vince immediately understood the subtext, and went quiet.

"Do you understand me, Vince?" Ken said quietly. "We can't have any mishaps. I'm sorry it has to be this way, but…"

"Yeah."

Ken smiled, genuinely, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a large, soft parcel, wrapped up in newspaper, and handed it over. Vince took it with fragile hands.

"Christmas present," the Irishman explained. "From our mutual friend." He winked.

Vince swallowed, and nodded at Ken. "Wait here a second," he said. Then he dashed inside the flat, up the stairs, and unlocked the flat (Leroy was still out, then – thank God). He pulled a plastic bag from under the sofa, and replaced it with the parcel. Then he rushed back downstairs again, where Ken was watching the doorway with a bemused expression. Gasping for air, Vince held him the carrier bag.

"Happy Christmas," he panted. "The others are in there, too."

Ken frowned, and then told the dogs to sit. They obediently did so, and he dropped their leads onto the ground to take the bag. He reached inside with one hand, and pulled out a small package with his name emblazoned on it in marker pen. He laughed softly, and unwrapped it neatly, sliding his fingers under the tape. The paper fell away, and Ken held up the CD with a grin.

"The Headmaster's Ritual, Rusholme Ruffians…" he read out. "Meat is Murder. How did you know I liked The Smiths?"

"Howard was complaining about it," Vince shrugged. Ken shook his head.

"You're a fucking little weirdo, you know that?"

Vince smiled sadly. "Yep."

Ken sighed. "But thanks. Fuck, I haven't heard Rusholme Ruffians in a while. _And someone falls in love, and someone's beaten up, and the senses being dulled are mine_. How ironic." He bent down, and snatched up the leads of the dogs. "I'll see you later, Noir."

Ken didn't turn and wave, not even when he got to the corner of the street and vanished. Vince watched him all the way, and then he shut the door and dashed back upstairs to the flat and hauled the parcel out from under the sofa. He turned it over in his hands for a moment, gazing at it, and then ripped the paper away. A small note fell out, and he picked it up from where it had fluttered to the floor. It read simply: _Got this before we left because it reminded me of you. I'm just sorry I couldn't give it to you at home. With all my love, H xx_

Vince swallowed down the lump in his throat, and unfolded the remained of the wrapping paper. It was a black jacket, long and soft, with minutely embroidered white feathers encircling the cuffs and neckline. It was beautiful, looked like it cost a fair bit, and Vince didn't realize there was water on his cheeks until it dripped onto the floor. Angrily, he wiped his face, then he folded the jacket back into the newspaper along with the note, stuffed the package back under the sofa, and hastily left the flat again.

The dashboard lit up as Vince turned the ignition of the Vauxhall, revealing the time to be 9:17. He pulled out of the road, and down the empty main street. He had no idea where he was going; just needed to go somewhere, anywhere that wasn't his home. The streets were empty. He found himself driving around Camden Lock aimlessly. As he drove, he passed a Halifax, lurking in the shadows. For a moment, he was tempted to get out of the car and go and have a look, to find the best method of entrance and plan in miniscule detail how to rob it for all it was worth. But then the moment passed, and he carried on driving. After half an hour, he parked on a street a way away from his home, and got out. He wandered around until he found a red public phone box, fed a coin into the slow and dialed Howard's number.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. Vince wound the cord around his fingers in an agitated cat's cradle. Then, finally:

"_Hello_?"

Vince's breath stuck in his mouth at the voice, and he couldn't speak.

"_Hello? Who is this_?"

Howard sounded understandably rattled. The air in Vince's lungs tightened, pressed against the inside of his chest, and he gulped – or rather sobbed – it back down. There was a pause.

"_Vince? Is that you_?"

Vince closed his eyes, and tried to breathe slowly. "Yeah."

"_Fuck…are you ok? What's wrong?_"

"Nothing, nothing's wrong," Vince muttered unconvincingly. "Just wanted to say Happy Christmas, small-eyes."

"_Don't be knocking at my eyes,_" Howard said quietly. "_My eyes hold powerful, deep emotions, sir. Minimalist, if you will_."

"Oh yeah?" Vince laughed, wiping his eyes with a trembling hand. "They're like belt-holes."

Howard laughed lowly. "_Are you sure you're alright_?"

Vince choked a little. "I wanna come home, Howard. I miss you so much."

"_You'll be fine, Vince. Just hang in there_."

"I'm sick of it all. Nothing feels real anymore."

Howard didn't speak. Vince frowned. "Howard?"

"_It'll be over soon, little man. I promise_."

Vince slowly nodded. "Yeah…Howard?"

"_Yeah_?"

"I love you," Vince mumbled into the phone, and then he quickly hung it up before Howard could reply. He slid down the glass, rested his head on his knees, and cried deeply. He didn't know how long he sat there, shaking against the smoke-smelling concrete and the dirty plastic, but after a while he got up and staggered back to his car. He reversed, and then there was a crunch as the wheel hit the pavement at an angle, and the car jumped. Vince quickly cut off the ignition, and leant his head against the steering wheel, his body convulsing with the effort of crying. There was a knock at his window, and he looked up to see a young policeman holding a breathaliser. He wound down the window, and the policeman frowned at him.

"Are you driving over the limit, sir?" he asked, and then his expression shifted as he took in Vince's bedraggled expression. "Oh, shit. It's you. I'm so sorry, mate…"

And then he turned and left. Vince sighed, and laid his head back on the steering wheel as the cold air from the open window stroked the back of his neck.


	4. AN

**Author's Note**

**Hello, everybody who has had this flash up in their inbox and thought, "Ooh, hey, a chapter! That's unexpected!"**

**Sorry to break it to you, but this isn't a new chapter. Actually, there probably won't be any new chapters for a while.**

**Basically, I've written myself into a corner with this story a little bit. It's not going where I originally intended, and I've lost some of the spark that "Joker" had. Because of this, and other reasons including new plotbunnies, some changes in my real life and the fact that I haven't updated for three months when this was supposed to be finished by now, I'm putting it on hiatus. I'm sure I'll return to it eventually, but for now don't expect anything new.**

**I'm very sorry!**

**-Chalcedony.**


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